


Like an inconveniently placed doorstop

by qwanderer



Series: in the habit of saving the world [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: (ambiguously so), ?????, Asexual Relationship, Humor, Love Confessions, M/M, Other, Sleepy Crowley (Good Omens), awkward pining, overextended metaphors, that missing scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-02
Updated: 2019-09-02
Packaged: 2020-10-05 23:54:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20497460
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: There are some things one knows, but doesn't think about. Like an inconveniently placed doorstop on the floor in one's entryway, which one learns to walk around without stubbing one's toes so well that one no longer has to consciously think about it.And then someone goes and moves it an inch.





	Like an inconveniently placed doorstop

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Erro, Ergo Sum](https://archiveofourown.org/works/2259831) by [pagination](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination). 

> So I’ve been kinda focusing on mood and ambience in my writing recently, and also letting Good Omens fic ideas strike me and have their way with me, and one day I was struck by the idea “I need to write a fic where Crowley is loopy and the mood of the fic is like that one Phlint fic with the sleep-deprived egg salad sandwich scene”
> 
> And then I went back and found and reread it
> 
> Nick Fury: “I will put him in the brig with Sound of Music on endless replay. My right hand to God.”
> 
> Me: This. This is fate.
> 
> This fic has almost nothing to do with that fic, except, hopefully, in spirit.

“What happened to the wine?” Aziraphale wondered aloud, about twenty minutes into their bus ride back to London, remembering the bottle they’d been passing back and forth as they sat on the bench in Tadfield.

Crowley seemed to blink at him for a good few seconds from behind his sunglasses before he managed to put together an answer out of the jumble of noises he always seemed to have at the ready, even when he had nothing else. “Ah, finished it,” he said. “Left the bottle. Figure on balance, I’m a demon. Why not litter when I’ve got the opportunity.”

Aziraphale hadn’t drunk much of it, just enough, in fact, to put a rosy glow on the edges of reality, which could really use it about now. The bookshop was gone. The two of them had defied their superiors in order to preserve the human world, and there would doubtless be consequences. But hopefully, not in the  _ immediate _ future. 

The occult equivalent of adrenaline was wearing off, now, and although Aziraphale definitely felt the comedown deep in his aching core, it seemed to be hitting Crowley much harder.

His head would droop forward just a bit, over the course of a minute or two, and then he’d jerk upright again every time the bus went over a bump.

They hit a particularly nasty one, and Crowley made a displeased noise, and said, “Fuck. I miss the Bentley.”

Aziraphale regarded him thoughtfully. “The bus will get us home just as well. It seems you’re in no state to drive, anyway. You keep nodding off.”

With a moue and an indignant grumble, Crowley told him, “Not to drive right now. Just. In general. Everything ‘bout it I can remember from a hundred years. Seats. Stereo. Bullet holes decals. Except maybe not those. Made me feel dangerous. Don’t like dangerous so much right now.”

“No, I suppose not,” Aziraphale agreed. “Safety might be a pleasant change of pace for anyone at this point.”

The next thing Crowley said was so quiet, Aziraphale almost didn’t catch it. “And I don’t want to see the Bentley look broken again.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale. “That, too.”

They were pressed close together, shoulder to shoulder and thigh against thigh, and at that, Crowley leaned infinitesimally closer, as if seeking warmth to replace what he’d lost. 

Aziraphale wanted to say something cheery and optimistic about the future, about things getting better, but he couldn’t think of anything that didn’t feel like either a platitude or an outright lie, so he just leaned against Crowley in return. 

Crowley rested his head on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and, slightly muffled, he said, “I s’pose not driving has its compensations.”

Aziraphale turned his head and just blinked at him for several seconds. Crowley didn’t appear to notice. The sunglasses made it hard to tell, of course, but Aziraphale couldn’t ask Crowley to remove them.

Mentally, he sidestepped the particulars of the why of that.

This level of contact… wasn’t unusual,  _ as such_, for Crowley. Only he wasn’t nearly as drunk as he usually had to be before he was draping himself over Aziraphale indiscriminately.

Well, Aziraphale didn’t know what it was like to  _ feel _ Satan’s anger dragging one down, and he hadn’t had to mourn a friend he’d known for millennia, and he couldn’t stop time, or drive a car through a cursed curtain of hellfire.

Or drive a car at all, when it came down to it, but that was beside the point.

The point was that Crowley had been through a lot in the last little bit, and had performed miracles today the likes of which Aziraphale had never seen. And now the demon was dozing in his seat. It stood to reason that any unusual behaviors Aziraphale might notice could also be plausibly attributed to exhaustion and stress.

Yes. Quite. Probably didn’t mean anything.

The bus stopped outside Crowley’s building, and Aziraphale helped Crowley to stand. Crowley slung an arm over Aziraphale’s shoulder, leaning into him as they walked off the bus and to the building.

Aziraphale briefly considered excusing himself here, saying goodnight and letting Crowley rest. But, almost as if Crowley sensed his hesitation, the weight across Aziraphale’s shoulders increased. Crowley then made a quiet little ‘so there’ sort of self-satisfied noise. Like he’d just made a particularly clever move in Scrabble.

Frowning, Aziraphale asked, “Crowley, what are you up to?”

“I have a cunning plan. I think. Only gotten as far as luring you into my flat by maybe a little bit not being able to make it in on my own.”

_ Sounds like one of mine, to be honest_, Aziraphale didn’t say. He also didn’t ask whether Crowley really was playing up his exhaustion to get Aziraphale to come inside. It didn’t matter. Today, neither of them should have to construct elaborate excuses to be in each other’s company.

It was just habit by now, though. Like saying “sorry” when you bumped shoulders with a stranger, even if they had been the one to run into you. 

(Although that example didn’t apply to demons. And Anthony “the girl on the bike hit me, not the other way around” Crowley was no exception.)

Aziraphale let Crowley rest his weight against him as they rode the elevator up to the top floor. “Right, you wily serpent,” he said, rubbing Crowley’s back gently and trying not to think too hard about it, “you’ve got me. I’m stepping right into your lair.”

Crowley sighed contentedly. Then, a moment later, he groaned, as if he’d just remembered that reality existed, and it was a mess that needed taking care of. “No, but really,” he grumbled into Aziraphale’s shoulder, “we need. Plans. Plans to deal with. Angry supernatural beings being after us.”

The thing was. Crowley hadn’t kept the game going, hadn’t even pretended to gloat over Aziraphale admitting that his ploy had been successful. Aziraphale made a decision.

“Any planning for anything more serious than tea and bed will have to wait until morning,” he said. “You're completely knackered, aren't you?”

“Umh.” Crowley didn’t bother to move as the elevator doors slid open. “Pretty much.”

“Oh dear. If you're admitting it, it must be even worse than I thought.” Aziraphale coaxed him along, towards his flat. “We’ll skip the tea then. Come on. Let’s get you into bed.”

Aziraphale surveyed the flat as they shuffled through the echoing spaces of its interior. He’d never been inside before, only to the door, and the main impression he got of the place was that it was somehow _ hollow_.

Not in a bad way. There were many good things that were hollow. Things that were beautiful, that did beautiful things because of the empty space at their core. The resonance chambers of a musical instrument, for example. Yes, exactly. Standing in Crowley’s flat felt as if he were standing inside a cello, perhaps.

Or the pipes of an organ. 

“What are you thinking?” Crowley asked, and Aziraphale realized he’d been quiet for an awkward amount of time.

“Why does this place feel like a church,” Aziraphale asked, “only... inside out?”

“World’s sacred,” Crowley answered immediately. “But this place is mine.”

“Ah,” said Aziraphale, not quite knowing why it made so much sense, but feeling that it did. He glanced through a doorway as they passed. 

And came face to face with a puddle of liquified demon, well-marinated in holy water.

He stopped breathing, and his arms tightened rather abruptly around Crowley. 

“Wha - ” he began, his mind racing. “_Who?_”

“Oh!” Crowley answered, sounding abruptly more awake. “Ligur. He and Hastur came for me. I had to make use of your insurance.”

Aziraphale dreaded to think what it might have been like if he’d encountered this scene without having Crowley immediately to hand, as it were. But Crowley was in his arms, safe and sound. 

“Worked out,” Crowley said, clearly reacting to the way Aziraphale was now squeezing him. “Squirmed out of that pretty neatly.” And then more softly, he added, “I’m all right.”

The shape of everything he’d been avoiding became nigh unavoidable. All his dread about what could happen if Crowley were exposed to holy water. How it had squeezed at his heart for a century and a half. The way Crowley, after having watched the book shop burn, had said tearfully, 'I lost my best friend.'

The demon truly had been through more than enough today. And he wasn’t the only one that ached with it all.

Aziraphale could feel the weight of Crowley in his arms, the trust the demon had in him. 

Inside Aziraphale, something wobbled.

The angel resolutely ignored it, and tutted, loosening his arms a bit through sheer force of will and guiding Crowley onwards. “I’ll clean that up for you,” he said. “As soon as you’re settled.”

“You will?”

“Yes, of course. You know how much I worry about you getting near the stuff.” Aziraphale made a pleased noise as he spotted a bed through the next door they passed, and he steered them inside. “In you go.”

Crowley groaned in a sort of pained relief as, in a team effort, they lowered him to the bed. “Why do human bodies have _ muscles_,” he whined. “Don’t like that.”

“A bit of rest will make you feel much better about the whole concept, I’m certain.” Aziraphale knelt down to remove Crowley’s shoes before tucking his feet up into bed with the rest of him. Standing over him, Aziraphale couldn’t help but gaze at his face, lax and gently grumpy. So… Crowley.

Crowley reached up and clumsily took off his sunglasses, tossing them in the direction of the bedside table with limited success. Aziraphale wasn’t sure if he was relieved that he no longer had to figure out whether to reach out to Crowley and remove the glasses, or disappointed.

“There we are,” he said fondly, patting Crowley’s shoulder instead. “Is there anything else you need?”

“Nah,” said Crowley, and Aziraphale could just barely see the yellow of his irises as he looked up at the angel through half-closed eyes. “This is good. You're an angel, angel.” He frowned slightly. “That sounds weird.” His head shifted on the pillow. “You're an angel, my angel. That's better. Does that sound better to you?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth, closed it again. There was no answer that came readily to that. Instead he said, “I should go. Let you sleep.”

He was just turning away when he felt Crowley reach for him. Fingers on his wrist, encircling in a way that, paradoxically, trapped Aziraphale by virtue of its gentleness.

Oh hel - oh heav - oh  _ fuck_.

“Don't go,” said Crowley, and his voice was terribly soft, and that was. Dangerous, in its own way. 

Aziraphale turned his head and looked at him and it wasn’t the face he feared it would be - it was so much worse. Crowley didn’t look seductive. He didn’t even look lovestruck. He looked desperate, and a little bit terrified. 

Aziraphale sat, balancing himself somewhat gingerly on the edge of the bed. Crowley didn’t let go of his wrist, fingers encircling, slithering up and around, like a snake.

Taking a breath, Aziraphale asked, “What's wrong?”

Crowley grumbled quietly, but Aziraphale just watched him, patient.

“It's embarrassing,” Crowley admitted.

“Crowley.”

The demon sighed, and his fingers twitched where they rested against Aziraphale’s wrist. “You know how Anathema mentioned Adam and Them playing at Spanish Inquisition?”

“Oh, my dear,” Aziraphale said, putting his other hand over Crowley’s as if to soothe his nervous motions. “Does that still bother you? We both know you aren't to blame.”

“No, it's not that.” Crowley grimaced. “Well, not  _ just _ that.” 

Aziraphale waited.

“I just… can you imagine how things might have gone today if Adam had been the kind of boy who could know everything that meant and still want to bring it back to life?”

“He's not,” Aziraphale reminded him calmly. “We're very lucky that that's the case, yes, but he's not.” 

“Yeah, I know. Just took me by surprise." His mouth quirked at the corner, and he laughed in a way that was only slightly hysterical. "Guess it's true what they say."

Crowley was silent for long enough that Aziraphale felt the need to ask, "What is it they say, my dear?"

"Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition."

The words were soft and sleepy, and Aziraphale wanted to ask who exactly said that, but didn't want to wake the demon if he'd dropped off. It was probably a meme or what have you, anyway.

Aziraphale was sure Crowley had dropped off, until he murmured, "Have you ever been to New York?"

“No, never,” Aziraphale responded. 

“I have,” the demon rambled. “The biiig apple. And it's like the little one. That first one. Chock full of knowledge and temptations. Chock full of trouble.”

“What brought the city to mind?” Aziraphale asked.

“Warlock’s family are moving there. He texted me.”

“Ah.” Aziraphale patted Crowley’s hand where it was still curled loosely around his wrist. Warlock was an issue they hadn’t yet had time to consider, given everything else. 

Crowley’s voice started up again, a gentle, unfocused noise like rain on leaves. “You think it's odd that we helped raise a human child because we thought he was the Antichrist? Just… all that… stuff we tried to cram into his head because we thought he was someone else. Funny, isn't it?”

“I don’t know whether I’d call it funny. It is odd.”

“Innit? What would that be like? To have your whole… destiny sort of… what's the blessed word… transposed. Onto someone else.”

Aziraphale had trouble getting his head around the concept, but he supposed it would be easier for a demon, a fallen angel, who’d thought he was destined to be one of God’s agents and ended up with the task of opposing them. “It sounds… confusing.”

Crowley’s eyes focused on Aziraphale’s face fully for a moment as he asked, “What do you think will happen to Warlock?”

Aziraphale squeezed his hand before laying it gently back on the bed. “I think he will be right as rain.”

“Because of you,” Crowley said.

Aziraphale shook his head. “Because of you, just as much. I saw how much you love him.”

“Did you? Do you see it when I love?” Crowley’s words were lazily drawn out, as if he didn’t want anyone to know they mattered. Aziraphale could see that they did.

“I do,” he said.

“Mmm. Love you, 'ziraphale.  _ You _ know.”

Aziraphale was utterly gobsmacked. 

There are some things one knows, but doesn't think about. Like an inconveniently placed doorstop on the floor in one's entryway, which one learns to walk around without stubbing one's toes so well that one no longer has to consciously think about it.

And then someone goes and moves it an inch.

Aziraphale had just stubbed his metaphorical toe, hard.

Yes, he knew, but he generally avoided thinking about it. And generally, Crowley enabled him in his denial.

Well, generally, they had some kind of hope of remaining in the good graces of Heaven and Hell. So perhaps it was time Aziraphale faced the idea.

Perhaps in a few… weeks. Or decades, at the absolute outside. But if he did that, he would just keep stubbing his toe on it. At least, until he got accustomed to the new location. 

Which was: acknowledged by Crowley, even if he probably would not have done so if he had been fully in possession of his faculties.

Crowley loved him. Truly and deeply, along with a bone-deep trust.

Yes, still a shock. 

Aziraphale flailed about for another subject for his brain to worry at. Not the prophecy, he didn't want to face that alone. There was another loose end, though. What  _ were _ they going to do about Warlock?

It must be strange, being so young and being caught up in this mess of an attempted apocalypse. Even if one’s role was relatively simple, like Adam’s friends, facing off against their destined horsepeople in turn. But Warlock Dowling? The Antichrist-That-Wasn’t? Being prepared in so many little ways to pick up the reins of hell, and then having everybody pick up without warning and move along to where the action was actually happening?

It must be utterly bewildering. 

How had Crowley described it? To have had one’s destiny  _ transposed _ with someone else’s. As if people were interchangeable parts, cogs in a watch. Faceless.

Something tickled at the back of Aziraphale’s mind. 

_ Choose your faces wisely_.

There was something there.

“Crowley, when you say ‘transposed’...” Aziraphale turned to look at him, to see if he had caught the edge of the same idea. 

But Crowley didn’t stir. He really was asleep this time.

Aziaphale sighed. The demon needed, and deserved, to sleep. 

It was just going to be something of an anxious, lonely night, without him. 

Aziraphale got up and began puttering around the flat, setting things in order, starting with the horrific puddle of holy water in the study, and spiraling out from there, to a book whose pages had been littered about another room - miracled apart, not ripped, thankfully, and so quite easy to miracle back together as if it had never been damaged. 

What beautiful photographs of dark and mysterious places, other planets, nebulae, stars - 

Ah. Alpha Centauri. 

Aziraphale hastily put the book down, and moved on. His metaphorical toes were getting quite bruised, and perhaps he ought to actually consider doing something about the small cast-iron elephant in the room.

When an appropriate time presented itself, of course.

He sighed, and went to the kitchen to make himself some tea, then settled in the plant room, intent on passing the time admiring Crowley’s little indoor garden. 

It was easier than it should have been, somehow, to reconcile with the idea of putting on Crowley’s body like a sort of coat, and going down into hell disguised as his old friend. It was somewhat harder to watch Crowley walk out of the flat in his body, leaving him to face the wrath of heaven, never having said - never having answered - well. 

But it needed doing.

It was such a relief when they were finally back, together again, and everything had gone off without a hitch. Aziraphale was very much tempted to just let things slip back to normal between them - but there hadn’t really been a normal, not one like this, a normal without the fear of the disapproval of heaven, one without an impending Armageddon to thwart. 

Aziraphale let Crowley take the lead for a bit, just letting the state of things settle over him. Getting familiar with reality and all its implications. So they went to the Ritz and ate wonderful food and drank good champagne, and everything was warm and golden and charmed. 

As they walked back to the bookshop, Aziraphale cleared his throat, deciding it really was his turn to. Say something. Give some direction to their path. 

Do something with that damned doorstop. 

“It's good that we can relax now,” he offered. “Get some proper rest. I think we deserve a holiday. Especially you.”

“What.” Crowley took a second to mull that over, then stopped in his tracks. “What - oh,  _ ugghfghekk nnghk _ I embarrassed myself horribly last night, didn't I?”

Aziraphale looped his arm around Crowley’s elbow and patted him fondly. “You have nothing to be embarrassed about, my dear.”

“That. That's a yes.” Aziraphale could tell that he was squinting, despite his sunglasses.

He picked his words carefully as he responded. “You were rather. Incoherent. You were so very tired.”

“Uggh no. Ehhhh… okay, tell me, what did I say?”

“You told me you love me.”

Crowley made a very familiar expression, startled and subtly pained. A stubbed-toe sort of expression.

“Oh,” he said. “Well. ... suppose it's true.”

“I know, my dear,” Aziraphale said. “I love you, too.”

Crowley turned fully to look at him. Stare at him, in point of fact.

Aziraphale generously gave him a moment. After all, Crowley had given him years. Centuries, even. Then the angel smiled, and took Crowley’s hands in his. Thin hands, always a little cold, usually full of nervous motion. Aziraphale knew them well. 

He raised them to his mouth, and kissed them.

The elephant finally settled in a more fitting place, Aziraphale turned back in the direction of the book shop.

“Well,” he said. “Shall we?”

Crowley just made a strangled noise, but he followed, nevertheless. Quite eagerly, in point of fact. And, arms linked together, they leaned into each other just a bit all the way back to the book shop.

The world had a palpable golden glow, and nothing was standing in their way.


End file.
